Too many female prisoners, a special forces soldier transmigrates and marries wildly.

The nights in the state capital are long and cold.

Lin Feng did not immediately look for a place to stay.

Like a seasoned hunter, after confirming that he had completely shaken off any possible pursuit, he deliberately took a long detour and arrived at the southwest corner of the city.

This place, located near the city wall, was one of the gathering places for the lowest-class vagrants, beggars, and shady characters in the prefecture.

Therefore, this is also the easiest place to hide and the hardest to track.

He took out the worn-out uniform of the Beacon Fire Battalion, stained with indelible blood, from his bundle and silently put it on. The rough fabric rubbed against his skin, carrying the scent of northern winds and sand, and the stench of blood, instantly pulling him back to those years of war and shared life and death.

This outfit is not only a disguise (a destitute old soldier from the border who has fallen into poverty in the prefecture), but also a signal, a flag, which may attract those "kindred spirits" who have also crawled out of the blood and fire of the north and are scattered in various corners of this prefecture.

Finally, the light of day struggled to tear through the thick fog and clouds.

Lin Feng stood up and stretched his stiff limbs. He needed food, a more accurate understanding of the power distribution in this area, and to find the first possible "trace."

In the southwest corner of the city, an area jokingly referred to by locals as the "muddy depression," life unfolds during the day in a way that is both strikingly different from that at night, yet equally brutal.

The narrow alleyway was crowded with makeshift shacks made of broken planks, tarpaulins, and even straw. Sewage flowed freely in the middle of the road, emitting a nauseating stench.

People, dressed in rags and with sallow complexions, scavenged through the garbage like busy worker ants, searching for anything of value. Others squatted by the roadside, a few worn-out items laid out before them, their eyes blankly awaiting the almost nonexistent prospect of buyers. Occasionally, a slightly more presentable man with a menacing gaze would walk by, and those around would instinctively avert their eyes or display fawning fear—he was the "manager" or "hanger-on" of the area.

Lin Feng walked slowly with his head down, but his gaze swept quickly across everything he saw along the way, like the most precise instrument.

He was observing the people here, their clothes, expressions, and interactions with each other, and also observing the "order" here—the unspoken rules that actually existed beneath the seemingly chaotic surface, maintained by local bullies and violence.

He needed to find a way to get access to information without immediately attracting too much attention.

His gaze fell on a relatively wide fork in the road at the alleyway ahead.

There, a makeshift shed was built from a few broken planks. Under the shed, two crooked tables and several benches were placed. An old man with gray hair and one eye was hunched over, cooking a steaming, unrecognizable, mushy substance in a blackened, broken pot. Beside the shed, a bamboo pole was stuck crookedly, carrying a piece of cloth so dirty its color was indistinguishable. On it, two words were scrawled in crooked charcoal: "Mustard Soup."

Several men, dressed in similarly tattered clothes, were sitting around a table, eating hard, unidentifiable flatbreads from a bowl of dark, mushy soup, talking in hushed tones, their eyes darting around warily from time to time.

It is here.

These most basic food stalls are often where homeless people, laborers, and "fallen veterans" like him gather. They may not be well-informed, but they are authentic enough and the easiest to fit in.

Lin Feng walked up to the shed, his voice hoarse, and asked in a distinctly northern accent, "Old man, how much is a bowl of soup and two flatbreads?"

The one-eyed old man raised his cloudy eye and glanced at him, especially at the old uniform he was wearing. A barely perceptible look of understanding flashed in his eyes. Then he lowered his head, stirred the pot with a wooden spoon, and mumbled, "Three coins. The bread is hard, the soup is thin, just make do with it."

Lin Feng took out three copper coins and placed them on a relatively clean wooden board next to the pot. The old man took the money, ladled out a bowl of thin soup that was almost reflective, and then grabbed two dark and hard coarse grain cakes with his greasy black hands, put them in a chipped earthenware bowl, and handed them over.

Lin Feng took the food, found an empty seat in a corner, and sat down, slowly eating with his head down. The flatbread was rough and cut his throat, and the soup was bland and tasteless, with only a strange salty and astringent taste, but he ate with great patience, as if he were savoring some delicacy. His ears, however, were perked up, picking up on the hushed conversation of the men at the next table.

"...Have you heard? A thief really broke into Master Zhou's house in the East District the night before last! I heard he stole several of Master Zhou's treasured possessions!"

"Nonsense! What kind of place is the Zhou residence? High walls and massive guards, what kind of thief could possibly get in? I'd say it's more like an inside job!"

"An inside man? Who would dare? Master Zhou was just assassinated and is furious!"

"Shh! Keep your voice down! I have a distant cousin who empties chamber pots in the back alley of the Zhou mansion. He said that night he heard a woman screaming inside the mansion, as well as the sound of guards running around. Later, he saw a carriage quietly leave through the back gate, but he didn't know what it was carrying..."

"A woman screaming? Could it be Master Zhou's... hehe..."

"Shut up! If you want to die, don't drag us down with you! What right do we have to discuss the affairs of the Zhou family?"

The conversation quickly shifted to trivial matters such as recent grain prices, checkpoints at the city gates, and a fight between gangs over territory that resulted in a death. It seemed that only these rumors, some true and some false, existed about the Zhou family.

Lin Feng listened silently, analyzing the situation in his mind.

Just as he was pondering, a lean man at the next table, who hadn't said much, with a grotesque scar running diagonally from his brow bone to the corner of his mouth, suddenly turned around, his gaze falling on Lin Feng. After a moment, he spoke in a hoarse voice, his accent clearly from the north: "Brother, from the north? From the Beacon Fire Camp?"

Lin Feng's heart skipped a beat, and he slowly raised his head to meet the man's gaze. The man had sharp eyes, and although he was dressed in tattered clothes, he sat upright with an indelible military air about him. In particular, the scar on his left cheek was a standard cut from a curved knife, not the result of a street fight.

"Yes, it used to be," Lin Feng replied briefly, his voice still hoarse. "And brothers too?"

"Blackwater River, Trapped Camp, Liu Sandao." The man grinned, twitching the scars on his face, making him look somewhat ferocious, but there was no malice in his eyes. "Retired for five years. Judging by your appearance, brother, you haven't lost your skills? How did you end up in this muddy swamp drinking pig feed?"

The Trapped Camp was a notoriously tough force in the northern border army, bordering the Beacon Fire Camp's defense zone and often cooperating in battles. Lin Feng didn't have much of an impression of the name Liu Sandao, but the six characters "Blackwater River Trapped Camp" were enough to bridge the gap.

"Bad luck, couldn't find relatives to visit, and ran out of money," Lin Feng mumbled, sighing. "Just trying to make a living. Brother Liu, it seems... the same goes for you?"

"Hmph, more or less." Liu Sandao snorted coldly, picked up the broken bowl and took a swig of the bland "thick soup". "I broke three ribs and became lame in one leg (he moved his left leg slightly, which was indeed a bit unnatural). I was kicked out of the camp gate, given a few taels of silver for burial, and that was it. My wife ran away with someone else, and I can't go back to my hometown. I can only wait to die here."

His tone was calm, yet it conveyed a deep-seated sorrow and resentment. This was the shared fate of many wounded veterans.

The men next to him seemed to have some respect for Liu Sandao. When they saw him take the initiative to talk to Lin Feng, they all shut their mouths and lowered their heads to drink their soup.

"This world..." Lin Feng shook his head, said nothing more, and simply picked up the hard biscuit and took a big bite.

Liu Sandao looked at him, his gaze lingering for a moment on the old scars on his face and hands, before suddenly lowering his voice and saying, "Brother, you don't seem like the type to just sit here and wait to die. Want to find some work?"

Lin Feng felt a slight chill run down his spine, but remained outwardly calm: "Brother Liu, do you have connections?"

"I wouldn't call it connections." Liu Sandao looked around, lowering his voice even further. "This muddy place may look chaotic, but it has its rules. Zhang Biao, 'Lame Wolf,' at the west end, manages the 'peace money' and labor jobs in this area. He needs some men who can keep things in check and have real skills. I think you... are alright. Want to give it a try? At least you can get a decent meal and have some shelter."

"Lame Wolf" Zhang Biao? A local bully? A bouncer? That's a possible angle.

Access to the lowest levels of power and information networks in this region is dangerous, but it also presents an opportunity.

Moreover, this Liu Sandao might also develop into a line of operations.

"Is Master Zhang... easy to talk to?" Lin Feng feigned hesitation.

"Let's see what you're capable of." Liu Sandao grinned. "If you're capable, can fight, and are obedient, you'll get meat to eat. If you're not capable, or disobedient..." He made a throat-slitting gesture, a ruthless glint in his eyes, "In this muddy place, how many people don't disappear every day?"

"Thank you for your guidance, Brother Liu." Lin Feng clasped his hands in a fist salute. "I wonder... how to find Master Zhang?"

"After noon, go to the largest abandoned brick kiln at the west end," Liu Sandao said. "Just say that I, Liu Sandao, recommended you. Whether it works out or not depends on your own luck."

"Okay." Lin Feng nodded, stuffed the last bit of flatbread into his mouth, picked up the bowl, drank the murky soup in one gulp, then stood up, nodded to Liu Sandao, and turned to leave the shed.

The first step has been taken.

Through Liu Sandao's contact with "Crippled Wolf" Zhang Biao, they infiltrated this grassroots area, gaining a foothold and a preliminary information network.

But this was just the beginning. What he needed was far more than a local "gatekeeper" position.

The sunlight finally managed to pierce through the clouds with difficulty.

Lin Feng's figure, bathed in sunlight, gradually grew larger in this chaotic area where light and shadow intertwined.